


sun's warmth

by polkaprintpjs



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Dissociation, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25645615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkaprintpjs/pseuds/polkaprintpjs
Summary: Whirl doesn’t bother to online his optic. The thick heavy sludge filling his lines and choking his vents and warping his plating from the weight of it- well, there’s just no point in looking. He’s the only one who can see it, after all.
Relationships: Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl (Transformers)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 36





	sun's warmth

**Author's Note:**

> started as a projection fic, ended as a projection fic with horror <3

Whirl doesn’t bother to online his optic. The thick heavy sludge filling his lines and choking his vents and warping his plating from the weight of it- well, there’s just no point in looking. He’s the only one who can see it, after all. 

He imagines lifting a claw and scraping it from his audials, but the thought is gone in the time it takes him to realize he can already hear, that Tailgate is talking, tiny hands cradling his helm in a tiny lap. 

Oh. Okay. 

This… isn’t so bad, really. He’s- well, he knows, distantly, that he’s not  _ content _ to just lay here like this, like some fucking slacker too  _ tired _ and  _ lazy _ to get up, but- he’s a bit less miserable than he was, and that’s enough. 

Tailgate’s hands are points of warmth he’s too tired to protest. And it’s not like he’d have gone anywhere if he  _ had _ gotten up, Whirl thinks, and then thinking at all is a tall order because all he really understands is how heavy his body is and he’s floating and it's nice. 

It’s a comfortable kind of disconnect. 

Soft touches from tiny hands reconnect him, though, and Whirl has to stifle a bleat of upset static when Tailgate’s voice filters in through the haze. 

Why  _ can’t _ he float? What’s wrong with just sinking right into nothing? It’s warm, floating there. 

More words are jumbled up, through an audial and out the other, and Whirl can’t muster the curiosity to parse them out. 

He’s aware, suddenly, of large warm hands smoothing up his shins, sliding back down to wrap around his calves. His optic is trained on the far wall. 

When did he online it? 

The question slides away as a blanketing warmth covers him from pede to neck. Soft material is carefully tucked around him from too many points for him to keep track of and Whirl realizes moments late it probably  _ is  _ a blanket. 

For an instant, this disconnect, this daze is unbearable, every inch of his frame warm and comfortable and  _ wrong _ and then it’s gone, the fear smoothed away by whatever’s wrong with him now. 

* * *

Whirl’s awareness trickles in, grains of sand in a glass. 

He’s alone, the painstaking digital clock he’d cobbled together on the sidetable. The glyphs indicating the time flicker and wobble and warp and it takes too long to read them, longer still to realize Cyclonus and Tailgate are on duty. 

Fuck, but he’s cold. 

His spark makes an appearance for the sheer purpose of infecting his tanks with a cramping sense of abandonment, and he shuts his optic off. 

* * *

His vision flickers, which is how he realizes he’s been watching Cyclonus pray. His fans kick on an interminable time later and he notices the blanket is now three, piled high and choking with warmth. Time stretches on.

* * *

A low fuel alert blinks, syrup-slow and hypnotic. The red is warm and soothing. The next time he remembers it exists, it’s gone. 

* * *

Whirl rolls off the berth, engine going from idling to  _ screaming _ in the time it takes for him to clear the trap of the blankets. 

He tries and fails to stagger to his pedes- the hazy memories of the last few _ however long it’s been _ include fuel tipped down his secondary intake a few times (but not nearly enough for a high energy frame like his)- he goes down on a knee and tips over with a clatter. 

He sees purple in the space  _ not-in-front _ and flinches away, skittering back on a sharp hip until he senses a wall and scrabbles his way upright. 

He resets his optic, spins his rotors in his arms once twice in  _ threat _ until he can see. 

Tailgate is kneeling on their berth, Cyclonus halfway rounding the other side, and Whirl’s engine revs before he can choke it off. 

Cyclonus lowers burning red optics, but doesn’t move, and Tailgate looks fit to  _ bawl _ . “ agw5@#fj^,” Tailgate says, and Whirl sends the command for his audials to reboot. It’s bounced back within nanoseconds, error alerts crowding his HUD. 

He’s cooking, they helpfully inform him, overheating because he’s not venting properly and hasn’t been for a while; low on fuel, his audials won’t boot because the heat is the bigger priority and his frame won’t listen, won’t respond- movement in his flickering vision startles him, but there’s nowhere for Whirl to go, back to the wall and a berth and them between him and the exit- Whirl drags his processor back with the blunt force obstinacy he’s made a name for himself with. 

Tailgate’s not a threat, and Cyclonus hasn’t been one in a long time. 

He’s not going to cower from his  _ own fucking conjunxes _ . He snaps his claws, the click clack thudding through his arms and setting a rhythm to vent to. He dismisses the alerts, reboots his audials. Whirl has enough self awareness to know he’s holding his raw terror and his alertness by the thinnest fucking threads, barely leashing himself back enough to not crumple in a heap or bolt. 

Tailgate’s still talking. “-afe, you’re in our hab. Can you hear me, Birdy? I- I just need you to vent, please, can you do that for me?” 

Whirl jerks his helm in a nod, but once he starts he can’t stop nodding- oh. Wait, nevermind, he’s shaking. 

Tailgate makes a sound of surprise, leans forward. 

“Birdy? Oh, Birdy- can I come over there, please? I just want to make sure you’re all right.” 

Whirl slides down the wall, every scrap of plating on his body rattling. His vocalizer only offers static, so he jerkily beckons with a claw. 

Tailgate hops off the berth and approaches- slowly, like he’s gonna spook. 

Frankly, Whirl’s feeling spooked as-is. His shaking slows a bit once Tailgates in his lap, though, tiny legs wrapped around his waist and tiny arms around his arm- the cockpit makes chest-to-chest snuggling kinda impossible, he thinks inanely. 

Cyclonus is still standing by the berth, optics averted; he’s probably trying to be non-threatening or some shit. 

Whirl reboots his vocalizer and manages to rasp out something along the lines of “Get ov’r here,” and Cyclonus does. He drops to the floor to lean over and cover Whirl’s side in the least graceful thing he’s ever done in Whirl’s memory. 

Tailgate’s frame hums around his as he speaks. “Promise you’ll go get some more fuel when you wake up, okay?” 

“‘Kay,” Whirl mumbles, curling closer around his conjunxes. 

Cyclonus sighs, sounding as put out as always. “Whirl, please. You must be serious. We are concerned. Please, take this seriously.” 

Whirl cycles his optic. His frame is cooling, slow and sure. 

“What’dya mean, ‘when I wake up’?” He asks, holds them closer. 

Tailgate sighs, his ventilations chilling the plating of Whirl’s arm. Neither answer. 

Whirl stays very still. He is cold, now. The warmth is a dream.

“Teegs?” he whispers, vocalizer hissing static. Nothing. “Cyc?” 

Their weight on his plating is next to nothing, now. 

Whirl sits frozen, spark cold as his frame.

If he doesn’t look, they’re not gone. 

If he doesn’t look, they’re still here. 

If he doesn’t look-


End file.
